


One Hundred Names for Love

by A_Farnese



Series: Penumbra- Missing Scenes [9]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Secrets, keeping secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29432817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Farnese/pseuds/A_Farnese
Summary: Stilicho has a secret, and the changes in his life have made it more difficult to keep.Set a few days after 'This Rough Magic'
Series: Penumbra- Missing Scenes [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/228677
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	One Hundred Names for Love

“It is late. Are you going to write all night?” Stilicho watched Merlin pause in his writing, the pen hovering over the page as his new mentor blinked up at him. A few moments passed before he focused on Stilicho and realized where he was: in their new chambers with the unpacking finished only that afternoon, and the feeling of unreality heavy in the air.

At least it felt unreal to Stilicho, this moving into the castle, being apprenticed to a sorcerer and physician, living in a king’s old rooms that were comfortably warm, to be close to…

He let that thought go. Merlin still looked at him like he’d spoken gibberish. “You haven’t been back on your feet for that long since- since your illness.” Stilicho was careful not to mention Niniane around him. That was a wound still too fresh to probe. In time, perhaps. “You look very tired.”

Merlin’s gaze turned from Stilicho’s face toward the window and the darkness beyond. In the lamplight, he was pale as milk, his face smudged with shadows where illness and grief had carved the planes of his face sharper and deeper. He looked haunted. Were Merlin's ghosts only in his mind? Or did they appear to him in his waking hours, as real as any other man standing before him.

Suppressing a shiver, Stilicho began clearing the day’s detritus. No matter how careful they had been, the servants hadn’t cleaned away all the evidence of the hasty move, and for once Merlin had not been his normal, orderly self and swept it all away. Parchment and oak galls littered the table, mixed with breadcrumbs and flakes of ground herbs blown about in the chaos of the day. He set the parchment pieces and oak galls aside and brushed the rest into a hand to toss into the fire. The crumbs flared and were gone in an instant, but Stilicho lingered to watch the fire burn low, his mind on another kind of warmth that burned as brightly as any conflagration. There was a smile in his memory that haunted him as readily as any spirit.

“Stil?” Merlin’s soft voice startled him out of his reverie. He spun to find Merlin looking at him, concern in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine,” he said quickly and went to find something to keep his hands busy, make it look like he had something important to do.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

“I…” Stilicho trailed off and let the book he’d picked up slide out of his fingers and back onto the shelf. “I would.” He sounded uncertain even to himself.

Merlin heard the tremor in his voice. “But there is something wrong. Have you changed your mind about being here? I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement with Blaise if you’re not happy.”

“It’s not that.” Stilicho picked the book up and slid it into its proper place a few feet down the row. “I have no complaints about being here, in the castle. It is warmer than Blaise’s house in the town. And quieter. He lives too close to a tavern, and it is noisy. There are too many people.”

“The castle isn’t always quiet. You should have heard the carousing after Arthur and Gwen’s wedding. There was music through the halls ‘til midnight, and drunken lordlings carrying on for hours after that.” Merlin’s expression soured. “And headaches and upset stomachs for Gaius and I to deal with for the entire day after.”

Stilicho shrugged and slipped into a chair across the table from Merlin, content to let him talk about anything. Perhaps he would tell one of his marvelous stories- about heroes of legend, or faraway lands, or even tales of his own life, which were no less exciting than those of mythical warriors. “Headaches and upset stomachs are not so bad. I would rather deal with them than with battle wounds.”

“Indeed.” Merlin’s gaze went distant again, and when the fire popped, they both jumped. The sorcerer’s hands tightened into fists on the table. Stilicho bit his lip, wishing he’d said nothing at all, for he, too had yet to forget those terrible days at Blackheath. The silence stretched out between them until Stilicho wondered if Merlin had forgotten he was there. Until, “There’s something on your mind. I can tell.”

He gave Merlin a wan smile. “It is nothing. Besides. I am the one who is supposed to be helping you, not the other way around. You’re still recovering. Do you want anything? I can get some food from the kitchens. Arthur said I could go and get you whatever you wanted from there, no matter what time of day.”

“No. Don’t bother. I’m not hungry,” Merlin said, shaking his head. He looked queasy at the mention of the kitchens. “Sit down, Stil. I’m fine. Sick and heartsick, but I’ll recover. But if you’re meant to be helping me and my patients, then your task would be easier if your mind were at ease. If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll understand. Gods know I’ve kept more than my share of secrets. Just know that when-- or if-- you’re ready, I’m willing to listen. To whatever it is.”

Stilicho slouched in his chair and stared down at his hands. His stomach churned until he felt like he was going to throw up. He swallowed hard, wishing he could banish the wanting from his heart and that smile from his mind. But the heart wanted what the heart wanted, and there was nothing that was going to wash away his thoughts of Gareth, nor the way the squire’s smile made his wishful heart skip a beat. Every time.

Merlin waited. Stilicho could almost feel the weight of the sorcerer’s gaze upon him. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Merlin’s eyes, though. His throat was dry, and he realized he was shaking.

“You’re not fine,” Merlin pushed to his feet and walked away, returning soon after with a blanket he draped over Stilicho’s shoulders. He clutched at it weakly and tried to smile up at his mentor. It was always so cold in this land; even in the midst of summer, when everyone else complained of the heat, it was still cooler than he preferred. And the winters were awful, dark and gray and colder than he’d ever thought was possible when he was a child living on a sunny island in the Middle Sea before misfortune struck his family. Before slave traders and fate brought him north, through dark and endless forests and into southern Frankia, where Blaise had bought him and given him a trade before setting him free. Not that a small and skinny child would fare well on his own, but Stilicho had appreciated the gesture. When he was grown, he could leave Blaise if he chose. So far, he had chosen to stay. At first to stay and help Blaise and little Aimery. And now that Aimery wasn’t so little and Blaise had a new boy to help train, well, he could help Merlin.

And he could…

He was still shivering. He hunched deeper into the blanket, wishing for the hot sun and sands of his childhood home. “Do you--” he began. His throat was too dry to go on.

Merlin was quiet. Stilicho heard him set water to heat over the brazier, then rattle around among the shelves of herbs. There was a sense of waiting, though he did not feel like Merlin expected him to speak. It eased his mind. Some of the tension left his shoulders. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

Soon, Merlin set a steaming cup in front of him. His hands were shaking, and when he sat down it was more of a controlled collapse. It had, after all, been only a couple of days since he had nearly died of poisoning. The thought of it made Stilicho’s problems seem smaller. He pulled the cup closer and breathed in. It smelled of mint and valerian. He would sleep well tonight, anyway. And maybe it would be good to speak his mind. To tell someone…

“There are rumors,” he began. Then his voice gave out.

“There are always rumors,” Merlin replied without looking up. He’d opened his book again and was preparing his pen for writing. “Any in particular that you’re thinking about?”

Stilicho sipped his tea. It was hot enough to be comforting and cool enough not to scald his tongue. “Yes. They- well. At the end of winter, when the horseman, Bert, came back from Tintagel. They said that Pynell said that… That you... And- and the king.. That you…”

“That I would climb into Arthur’s bed when Guinevere wasn’t in it, and perform foul and lecherous acts with him?” Merlin said drily. He sounded more tired-- bored, even-- than outraged at the slander.

“Yes,” Stilicho said, his voice small as he stared into his tea.

Merlin sighed. “There had been whispers like that for a long time in certain circles before Pynell stirred up the hornet’s nest. Arthur had the luxury of ignoring them. And I- I had other secrets to worry about.”

“Other secrets? Your magic? Or…” he trailed off and dared to look up at Merlin.

“Or?”

“Do you, I mean…” His heart was pounding. He drew in a shaking breath. “Do you love Arthur?”

Merlin gave him a long, searching look. “Yes, I do. But not, I think, in the way that you mean.”

Stilicho dropped his gaze, his grip on the blanket tightening. He was shivering again and he didn’t think that any blanket or fire could make him warm. And his head was spinning.

“Breathe, Stil. It’s all right.”

He rested his head on the table before he could faint. The wood was cool against his brow; it made him feel feverish, though the room stopped spinning around him. He let out a long breath, breathing slowly until his stomach stopped. Finally, he sat up again and ran a hand through his hair. Merlin was waiting for him, sitting quietly with his hands folded on the table. The very picture of patience. “I’m sorry,” Stilicho whispered.

“There’s no need to be. When you’ve been holding something inside for so long, it’s not easy to let it go. I tried to tell Arthur about my magic so many times but never could work up the courage to do it. I don’t know if I ever would have told him, if Morgana hadn’t forced my hand.”

“What did Arthur do when he found out?”

A faint smile graced Merlin’s lips. “He exiled me. Told me he never wanted to see me again. I can’t tell you how much it hurt. Like a knife to the heart. I couldn’t stay here, but I couldn’t bear to go far, so I lived in the woods for the next few months. And while I was living rough in the woods, Arthur had a lot of time to think things through. He realized that there was more to magic than the vengeful acts he’d seen. He came to understand that there was a lot about it that he hadn’t seen, and that if there were others like me, then maybe there was room for reconciliation. Eventually, he welcomed me back. There were certain rules about what I could and could not do with my magic, but I didn’t care. Much. I was home. That’s what mattered. It’s my destiny to be at Arthur’s side. I don’t think I could be happy anywhere else.”

“And you love him?”

“Very much. Not the way a man loves his wife. Or, I think, in the way a man loves his brother.” Merlin glanced down, a rueful smile on his face. “Though I’m not sure about that. I never had a brother. But there are bonds between us, between Arthur and I, that are deeper than friendship. Deeper than family. There’s a part of me that always knows where he is, if he’s happy or sad or angry. It’s usually a comfort. Sometimes awkward. And I doubt I will ever tell him about it. He would find it strange.”

What else was strange was the rush of words tumbling from Merlin’s lips. The sorcerer, usually so reserved, was chattering on like he was drunk. Like he wasn’t still shaking from the after-effects of Niniane’s poison. Like he wasn’t gaunt and pale and hollow-eyed with grief. But maybe he had only needed the right someone there to express it all, someone who had seen him stripped down to raw flesh and bone. Someone who had seen him weeping from pain and loss, and never responded with pity or discomfort. It was a healer’s lot, to face the agony and the sorrow and keep it all in a locked box, deep down in the psyche where it might never surface again.

There was a faraway look in Merlin’s eyes, and a brightness in them Stilicho hadn’t seen for a long time. Then he blinked, and it was gone. “But you’re not asking all this out of idle curiosity, are you?” Merlin asked.

“No. I had thought, perhaps, that you… that you were something like me.” Stilicho took a long breath to steady his voice and calm his nerves. “I have this feeling, inside me, and I don’t know what to call it. I think it might be love, but when I hear others talk about it and who it is for, they say it is wrong or evil or unnatural. And I don’t know why, because I don’t want anything-- just for him to be happy. And I--” his voice cracked and he looked away. Tears threatened to spill over.

“Oh, Stil,” Merlin breathed. It was quiet for a time. The fire crackled; a gust of wind rattled the windows in their casements. “Stil, look at me. From one keeper of secrets to another: no matter what the rest of the world says about you or who you love, there is nothing evil about you. There is nothing unnatural about you. The way you are is the way you were meant to be. Perfectly imperfect, like anyone else. What makes you good or bad is what you do, not who you love.”

Stilicho sniffed and dashed the moisture from his eyes. He wanted to look away, to hide his tears and pretend he was fine, but Merlin’s gaze had snared him. Not with the eerie intensity of a seer or a saint, but with the acceptance that Stilicho had always longed to see and had never imagined he would receive when his truth finally came out. He didn’t know what to do with it. What did one do when a long-hoped-for and unexpected gift was actually given?

His eyes teared up again. He clutched the blanket tighter around his shoulders, less for the comfort and more to give his hands something to do. “I didn’t expect-” his voice cracked again, and he fell silent.

“You didn’t expect me to accept you?” Merlin chuckled. “My own secrets have been far worse. Destructive, even. And all their consequences have yet to appear. But you? You love a young man. It’s not so strange as all that, despite what people might say. The world turns its nose up at what it doesn’t understand. But you want the best for the one you love. You want him to be happy. And your love, unrequited as it is, hasn’t made you bitter. That itself is a gift, strange as it may sound.”

Stilicho folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them. “It does sound strange. Is it one of those things I’ll understand when I’m older?”

“Perhaps,” Merlin said, smiling. “There are some things you understand with age. And some things I don’t think anyone figures out.” His smile faded, and he gave Stilicho a level look. “Have you told him how you feel, this love of yours?”

“Gareth? No!” He started back and nearly slid out of his chair. It took him a moment to get settled again, thanks to his shaking knees. Shaking from relief, though. Not from fear or dread. “No, how could I tell him? He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t want me to be near him.”

“You might be right. He might not understand. But then again, maybe he will. You never can tell how people will react when they find out you’re different from what they thought you were.” Merlin’s eyes went distant. “I don’t know if I ever would have told Arthur about my magic if Morgana and her men hadn’t ambushed us. But what happened, happened. And it wasn’t the end of the world. Arthur forgave me for keeping my secrets.”

“Arthur loves you, then. But not like he loves the queen.” Stilicho’s brow furrowed. Not for the first time did he wish he was older and wiser. “And you love Arthur, but not the way you loved Niniane.”

“Love…” Merlin blanched, and Stilicho wished he could take back his words. But the sorcerer gathered himself and looked back up at him. “You were hoping I was more like you, weren’t you?”

“I was,” Stilicho admitted. His hands curled into fists, fingernails scraping against the tabletop. “I haven’t met anyone else like me. It feels like I am alone in all the world. That no one feels the way I do.”

“You aren’t alone,” Merlin said firmly. “There are others who feel the way you do, but they have to keep their secrets, too. People forget all the different ways they know love-- for a husband or wife, or a parent, or a child, or any of the other people they care about. They want to box love up, put boundaries around it so everyone will behave in the way they expect. But they forget that there are a hundred names for love and thousands upon thousands of ways to show it. I feel sorry for those who are so limited in their thinking. They would be happier if they opened their hearts a little more.”

“I think so, too. I know I would be happier if they did,” Stilicho said.

Merlin smiled. “I understand. Here, at least, you are free to be who you are. Without judgment from me. It’s not much, but it’s good to have even this little sanctuary.” He raised his hands to encompass the room around them, so large and yet so small within the rest of the world.

“It is better than having nothing at all.”

“Indeed.” Merlin’s smile turned melancholy, and they were both silent for a time. Then the sorcerer looked back at him, the sparkle back in his eyes. “Gareth, is it?”

Stilicho’s cheeks burned. “Did I say that? Yes. He’s-- he’s so…”

“Tall? Good-natured? Easy to care about?”

“Yes. All those things. I haven’t said anything about… what I am. Not to him. Not to anyone else. I don’t know if he would understand. I know nothing of Amata or what the people there think of-- of people like me,” Stilicho said. He bit his lip. A nervous knot tightened in his stomach at the thought of telling Gareth how he felt and having Gareth reject him out of hand. And with hatred.

“I imagine Gareth holds the same sorts of ideas that his father has. But he has been here in Camelot, serving Arthur these past two years. His thoughts about magic have changed. Perhaps his mind has been opened to other ideas, too.”

“So you think I should tell him?” Stilicho asked, suddenly disoriented as though the floor had dropped out from under him.

Merlin sat back. “I’m a poor advisor when it comes to keeping secrets. I wouldn’t have told Arthur about my magic if it had been up to me. This is your choice to make, not mine. There will be consequences either way, and you’ll be the one living with them. Only you can decide if one choice will bring you more happiness than the other. And,” Merlin paused, and Stilicho looked back up at him. The sorcerer held his gaze. “He is the son of a king. One day, he will return to Amata. Either as a prince or as a king to take up his father’s throne. And when that time comes, you may have the choice to follow him there. Regardless of how he feels for you, he will have to take a wife and have children. When that time comes, you will have to decide if you can accept that you may not be able to share in that part of his life. Do you think you can stand that?”

Stilicho tore his gaze away from Merlin’s. “I think… I will not know until that day arrives. My world could change overnight, and only God knows how it would be different. But right now, I think that as long as he is happy, some part of me will be happy, too.”

“A wise answer,” Merlin said softly. “I wish I could have been so wise when I was your age.” He sighed and slouched against his chair back. “You always dream of a better world, but it seems like no matter how much progress we make, that better world is always just beyond the horizon.”

“All the more reason to keep walking forward, then.”

“Another wise answer. You should write a book. It would probably make more sense than mine.” Merlin tapped the cover of his leather-bound tome. “For now, though, I think we should both go to bed. You look as worn out as I feel.”

“I don’t feel tired.” Stilicho yawned widely, putting the lie to his protest. He smiled sheepishly. “Maybe I am. Do you need anything else tonight?”

“No,” Merlin said. “I’m recovering, not helpless. I can put myself to bed just fine. Go get some sleep. As you said, it’s late.” He placed his pen on top of his book and nodded once to Stilicho before carefully rising, shuffling to his room, and shutting the door behind himself.

“Good night, then,” Stilicho said to the empty air, taking Merlin’s dismissal for what it was. Then he slipped away to his little room, to his lonely bed, and his dreams of a better world.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still here, and still working on things. In the past couple of months I've gone from being a fast writer to a slow writer, which is incredibly frustrating. But I keep typing away and will eventually have the next Penumbra story ready.


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